


A Hand In Darkness

by chaosu



Category: Bleach
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2013-11-02
Packaged: 2017-12-31 06:01:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1028112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaosu/pseuds/chaosu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She lived by serving herself to them. But what if she finds someone who wants her for something else entirely?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hand In Darkness

  
They were beautiful, goddesses in their own right. One looked like an exotic Amazon, fierce and wild, brave and bold, so used to being in control. Another had emerald eyes, naive yet cold and oh so sharp. And yet another was the lithe one, mismatch-eyed and so flighty, full of play and of mischief. And another still was an Orient princess, dainty and of such a proper air. It was she whom the hooded stranger took.

She had noticed him during her first performance for the night. Among the merrymakers and the drunkards, he sat, unpeturbed, alone. He was watching, not drinking, not cheering, just watching. There was something in his stare that unnerved the woman. It was as if his eyes gleamed beneath his hood, or as a predator to his prey. She stepped down from the platform as the matron beckoned for her. Perhaps it will be one of those nights.

She entered the room, her olive-black hair following. The room was dimly lit by a lampshade. It was a familiar scene, that room, with someone sitting by the light waiting, as if welcoming, but they weren't usually welcoming faces, but rather sneers and jeers threatening to erupt form their lips. However she found nothing of the sort for the person's hood hid his appearance. He was quite small for a man; some of her female friends would so easily dwarf him. Was he a teenage boy looking for some? Nothing in his authoritative aura suggested it, except perhaps his hoodie and jeans, but that’s about all. His posture indicated one of lazy observation, like a predator that wants to play with his prey, and it seemed that he didn't miss her assess him as he patted a space just beside him. It was an order to sit.

She sighed to herself, sitting, watching the dainty fingers, looking like alabaster. They were thin and tapered, seemingly well-kept. Something didn't sit quite right with his appearance, a detail she felt she missed or overlooked, must be just her. Ever since she started this job, she had developed the odd habit of observing their customers, taking a note of their peculiarities. The one with a mole on the nose, the one with the scarred cheek, the sallow one... all of them named and filed away to a neatly organized memory. She sighed again, as she realized she had diverted too far. Her guest has been quiet as well, as if waiting for her to look at him, since her eyes had looked down until now. Lavender eyes met sharp metallic grey ones, watching her. And she was wrong; the customer tonight was a woman.

Eyes of command made her catch her breath, as if enchanting. It was an observant gaze, just curious and she was slightly happy for it. She was sure if those grey eyes were to look at her with scorn, she would tremble, afraid. "Speak." The words were spoken so suddenly that she wouldn't be sure if it wasn't just her imagination, if she hadn't seen the woman's lips move.

"Speak?" she repeated unsurely. What was there to talk about? "About what?"

"Tell me anything," the hooded one shrugged, pulling off the hood, and she could see the black tresses, as long as hers flow down. "Just anything."

"Like what?"

"Flowers, books, shops, anything," the grey-eyed one spoke vaguely, leaning back on the sofa they sat on. "If you want you can tell me about yourself." Flowers, books, shops.

"I like flowers," the olive-black one spoke softly, deciding that she shouldn't speak too much about herself. "Lilies and roses are my favorite anemones too." She frowned softly, unsure how to continue.

"Why do you like them?"

She thought for a moment continuing to frown. "I don't know. I guess it's because it's beautiful."

"Beautiful?"

"Yes," she spoke. "And perhaps because of what they mean." The silver-eyed one raised a brow, lazily as if it was of her interest. "Lilies you see," she began explaining, "are supposed to mean purity-" She blushed embarrassed as if the other one had found a dirty little secret of hers.

"Purity," the other began, looking at her through a glance. "Go on."

"Well yes, and beauty," she continued to blush. "That is too with the rose," she added demurely.

"Yes, the rose is beautiful too," the silver-eyed one spoke, pouring them both some wine. "And the anemone?"

"It means fading hope," she replied softly. "It's beautiful and tragic." The customer offered her a drink. She frowned as she realized that she had gotten lost within herself. She hadn't noticed the woman shrug off the jacket.

The first thing that captured her eyes was the bare shoulders, soft and creamy as hers in the lamplight. "Is there any problem?"

"Ah no," she blushed.

"Well, then please do continue," the other one spoke, drinking her wine.

"On to books then," she said. "Let's see. I greatly despise some new books." She frowned, drinking her own glass. "They're annoying, cliché at most."

"Hm? Like what?"

"The desire to save or be saved, like some puffed up version of Romeo and Juliet, or perhaps a Rapunzel, and all that damsels in distress, or perhaps sires," she spoke, the frown never ceasing. "I've read quite a lot of it. If not that, it's either some cheesy penny romance books. But then again it's the salvation thing that dominates the popular scene. It's like an escape, a rebellion to the natural order." The alcohol had loosened her tongue, not to mention she really likes to read.

"People will always rebel, find a way to destroy the status quo," the other added. "Any specific authors?"

"I've read Paolo Coelho's works. They're enchanting." Her guest nodded in agreement. "While Nicholas Sparks can be rather redundant, I can still say I love his works. Jodi Piccoult's is interesting too, 'Nineteen Minutes' especially. And there's Neil Gaiman."

"I quite agree," the guest spoke. "Are you interested with the classics?"

She blushed as she realized she had spoken quite a mouthful. "Yes, some, Voltaire is a favorite of mine."

"Read Candide?"

"Yes, when I was younger." Something in their features changed, not that both had paid attention much to each other. "A few of Shakespeare too, Othello and Hamlet." A hand suddenly cupped her cheek, caressing, before holding some strands of her locks. She blushed, unsure.

"Please continue," the woman beside her uttered, removing her hand, leaving the blushing one's cheeks cold.

Perhaps it was the alcohol. "Why are you here? You don't seem to be the type that would come to these places."

"Nothing really," she shrugged. "I was bored."

"You were bored?" The woman gave a small nod. "By what?"

"Everything," she smiled. "If I'm correct, you were the one supposed to answer me, right?"

"Ah yes," she blushed again.

"What's your favorite color?"

"Olive green," she shrugged.

"Hm, your favorite book?"

"I don't know," she spoke hesitant, the other gesturing for her to continue. "There are a lot of beautiful books out there. C.S. Lewis' Chronicles of Narnia is good. I don't know. There's so many to choose from. Oscar Wilde's Portrait of Dorian Grey is quite interesting too. Favorite, hm?" She gave a soft sigh. "I suppose it's Paolo Coelho's 'Veronica Decides to Die'. I guess I prefer it because it is very meditative, and subtle like how the plot is so skillfully woven." She closed her eyes and opened them slowly before continuing. "The most important things isn't in the plot but rather what's between them."

The woman nodded, touching her face, caressing her cheek, before standing up, wrapping her hooded jacket around the olive-locked woman who looked at her in surprise. "I have to go," the stormy silver grey-eyed one spoke. "It was a pleasant night." She turned to leave, walking towards the curtain of strung beads that reflected and refracted the light that passed through them.

She watched as the woman made her way. "Wait!" she cried before she could stop herself. The woman stopped to turn at her slightly. "My name is Sung-sun. I-I'd like to know yours."

"It's Sui Feng," she spoke, resuming her walk, lifting her hand as a gesture of farewell. Sung-sun stared waiting for her to disappear through the doorway. There was a warmth in her that she could not understand, a sense of importance the woman's presence brought. She sighed standing up, following the other woman's wake.

And just like that, there was a hand in darkness...


End file.
